“You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?” he asked, without rising to his feet. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! III. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting.
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